


Stripped

by MissJeeves



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:22:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissJeeves/pseuds/MissJeeves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal gets strip-searched. Peter's not conducting the search, but he's in the room/watching. Neal's humiliated, Peter's unexpectedly turned on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stripped

“Microchip’s missing,” Agent Jones said, softly. When Peter didn’t react immediately, Jones looked pointedly at Neal Caffrey and cleared his throat. “Agent Burke, one microchip is missing.”

Peter sighed. Neal had been sent in undercover to bust the microchip forgers to protect the integrity of the U.S. government virtual security, not violate it himself.

“Neal,” he said, tiredly. “Give it back.”

“I don’t have it.” Neal blinked at him, face cherubically blank. “I gave it to the bad guys, remember?”

“Right,” Peter muttered, sarcastically. It had been a very long day of dealing with devious and armed Chinese geeks and he was not in the mood to play this game. “Against the wall, Neal. Assume the position.”

Neal didn’t move. “Which position is that?” He smiled and tried to look charming. It probably would have worked on someone else. Neal never remembered who he was dealing with in Peter.

“Jones,” Peter instructed, mildly. Jones took half a step towards Neal and Neal suddenly stopped playing stupid. He shrugged, rolled his eyes, and turned his body against the nearest wall. He put his fingers, splayed, against the dry wall and spread his legs about the width of his shoulders.

Peter went to search him, ignoring the falsetto “Be gentle with me.”

He ran his hands across the plane of Neal’s back, firm enough to detect any out of place lumps. The microchip was about the size of a tiny metal marble. Neal’s stupid suit even felt valuable, as Peter’s fingers traveled down and around each arm. He felt nothing except expensive wool and Neal’s own warm, solid body.

Irritated, he nudged Neal’s legs farther apart and proceeded down the man’s leg. Neal made a noise that was either lewd or obnoxious when Peter’s palms slid down his ass and it was extremely tempting but totally unprofessional to smack him for it.

He hit the tracker on his way down. They’d put it back on the moment the sting was over, not that that had helped curb Neal’s klepto-complusions at all.

Peter tapped Neal’s shoulders. “Turn around.” Neal obeyed, offering a big dopey grin as he came to face Peter. “Where is it?” Peter demanded, reaching inside Neal’s jacket.

“I don’t have it,” Neal retorted and frowned when Peter’s hands roughly moved from his sleeves to his armpits. “Watch the suit.”

Peter didn’t feel anything. And normally he only did a cursory groin search, but knowing Caffrey he hidden the damn thing in his balls based on the assumption that Peter wouldn’t stick his hand down his pants. And Peter wouldn’t, but he seized Neal’s crotch hard enough to get an unmanly squeal and an aborted effort to twist away. Neal’s package was soft, but almost instantly firmed a bit under Peter’s fingers.

“Hey!” Neal protested, but Peter already moved down to the man’s thighs, then calves.

“Alright.” Peter straightened up, the search over. “Neal, give it back.”

“I don’t have it.” Neal dropped his arms, then pointedly crossed them over his chest.

“Neal.”

There was silence for a moment, and maybe Caffery would have confessed, but Jones interrupted the tension. “Peter, if we don’t account for it, the NSA is going to-”

“I know,” Peter cut him off. He didn’t want to think about that particular nightmare. “Jones, give me your cuffs.”

Neal made a noise of protest, but the younger agent quickly handed them over.

“Neal, if you don’t produce the chip right now, I’m going to cuff you and we’re going back to the office where Jones is going to give you a strip search.” Neal groaned again. “Is that what you want?” Jones didn’t make a sound, but his expression announced he wasn’t thrilled by these developments, either.

“No,” Neal said, sulkily. “I do not want that.”

But he also didn’t produce the purloined microchip, so Peter shoved him into the wall a bit harder than necessary, and cuffed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You’re serious about this,” Neal said, not quite a question, when Peter uncuffed him in the windowless interrogation room. Peter had sat next to him in the back of the car on the ride over, making sure he A) didn’t slip the cuffs and B) didn’t shove the microchip between the seats.

“You know how to make this stop,” Peter returned. Neal just stared at him, disbelief filling his face. Peter waited a second, then stepped back against the far wall, turning things over to Jones.

“Take your jacket off,” Jones instructed, voice calm and level. Neal just looked at him, then shook his head.

“Neal,” Peter said. “Do it.”

“Fine.” Neal began to violently shrug his suit jacket off, then slowed his movements and removed it carefully. He started to fold it up, but Jones spoke again.

“No. Shake it, turn it inside out, shake it again, then throw it on the ground towards me.”

Neal boggled. “The jacket didn’t do anything,” he finally said.

“Shake it out,” Jones began again.

Grudgingly, Neal obeyed. The jacket rustled slightly, but nothing metal fell out of it. Neal looked heartbroken when he had to toss it on the floor. Peter picked it up and gave it another good shake, just in case.

“Vest, tie, shirt, undershirt.” Jones said. “Same thing.”

“When was the last time you cleaned in here?” Neal grouched. “You owe me a new suit. I’m never going to get the despotic government grunge out of it.”

“Despotic?” Peter snickered. Neal just glared at him, no humor on his face. “Go,” Peter ordered. “Get naked or give me a microchip. Those are your choices.”

Shortly, Neal’s silk vest and tie, his shirt, and his sleeveless undershirt joined his jacket inside out on the floor. While Neal stood there shirtless in the fluorescent light, Peter picked through the garments. No microchip. They had to keep going.

“Shoes, socks, pants, underwear. ” Jones recited

Neal took his sweet time and Peter was less than thrilled to have pick over the shoes and socks. They didn’t smell, of course. Neal was too suave to sweat like a normal guy. The pants came off and Jones helped Peter go through the items that were in the pockets. Besides Neal’s wallet – which had several unauthorized credit cards Peter didn’t know about – there were a number of folded up pieces of paper. Peter shoved those inside his jacket. Not microchips, but from the trapped look on Neal’s face, something else bad.

“Briefs, please,” Jones said.

Neal gave him a withering look. “It’s cold in here,” he muttered, fingers already in his waistband.

The boxers slid down his legs and Neal artlessly kicked them in Peter’s direction. Peter picked them up. Plain black cotton, still warm from Neal’s skin. No microchip.

Neal knew better than to cover himself. He probably got strip searched every time he traveled to and from jail and court. But knowing the procedure didn’t make it better.

“Satisfied?” Neal asked.

“Do I have a microchip?” Peter asked back.

“Bend forward, run your hands through your hair towards me,” Jones instructed.

“This is ridiculous,” Neal spat. But he obeyed, fingers going through his dark hair. When he stopped, strands pointed every which way. Peter thought he looked remarkably different, suddenly wanton and messy. Neal Caffrey, naked and with bedhead. Without any of the expensive, fancy costumes he usually wore. It was a nice change.

“Okay?”

“Lift your testicles with your right hand, run you left hand underneath in a forward motion,” Jones continued.

Neal looked like he wanted to hesitate, like he wanted to make an obnoxious comment. But he didn’t. He just grabbed his genitals and obeyed. It was cool in the room, but Neal was half-erect. It wasn’t too surprising he got off on tension.

He was circumcised, so they didn’t have to ask him to roll any foreskin back.

When Neal moves his hands, Peter had a hard time following them with his eyes. His gaze lingered on Neal’s half-mast cock and balls.

“Open your mouth, stick out your tongue,” Jones continued. If he noticed Peter’s distraction, he didn’t show it.

“Ahhh,” Neal said, unnecessarily.

“Did you swallow it?” Peter asked, his mind jumping back to the missing microchip.

“What? No.” Neal scowled at him. “Want to x-ray me?”

“I might.”

“Turn around, “ Jones said.

This was probably the most humiliating part. Neal’s face dropped. He shrugged helplessly and turned.

Neal’s ass was smooth and mostly hairless. He didn’t have tan lines, but he was far too golden for a man who’d spent the last four summers in prison. Probably a standing appointment with a tanning bed, Peter thought.

“Raise your leg, show me your foot. Wiggle your toes.” Neal obeyed, the muscles in his thigh and back moving smoothly. Other men would have lost their balance, but not Neal. “Other leg,” said Jones. This was the one with the anklet. Naked, it looked out of place on Neal’s body. He didn’t move as smoothly with it on, either.

“Want me to do the hokey-pokey?” Neal asked, when Jones allowed him to put that foot down, too.

Still no microchip.

“You know what’s next,” Peter said, offering an out.

Neal said nothing.

“Lean forward, spread your buttocks,” Jones said, after a second. Neal’s hands moved backwards and grabbed his ass. He splayed his fingers and in the next second, Peter could see Neal’s asshole.

Somewhere during all this, Peter’s pants had become uncomfortably tight. He forced himself to continue to focus on the missing microchip.

“Cough,” Jones said.

It sounded more like a miserable laugh, but it had the same muscular outcome: Neal’s asshole twitched.

Peter considered getting a cavity search. It needed a warrant, but if Caffrey had shoved the microchip up his ass and they found it under court order, Neal would be going back to prison.

“Squat,” Jones ordered.

Neal’s body dropped smoothly to the floor, leg spread and ass still exposed. It was the standard position, but it had never seemed so overtly sexual to Peter before. Uninvited, his mind pictured a series of obscene images with Neal in it.

Peter adjusted his pants.

“Cough.”

Peter was allowed to be staring at Neal’s asshole during this.

“You can stand,” Jones was saying.

Instantly, the little pink hole vanished between Neal’s released ass cheeks. Neal stood up and turned around. His erection, Peter noticed, had flagged completely.

“Satisfied?” he demanded.

Without looking down, Peter made sure that his own jacket, folded over his arm, blocked his tented pants.

“No,” he said, honestly.

“Should I call the NSA?” Jones asked. He looked worried and Peter forced himself to focus on the microchip again.

“Neal,” Peter said. “They’re going to make our lives a living hell.”

“What?” Neal demanded. “Are they going to strip search you, too?”

Peter shook his head, still a little astonished at Neal’s ability to be self-righteous when he was completely naked and it was all his own fault, anyway.

“Yeah, Jones,” he said. “Make the call.”

“Excuse me,” Jones said, dipping his head. He exited the room, making sure no one in the hallway got an eyeful of naked Caffrey as he left.

“Can I get dressed?” Neal asked, after a minute.

Peter looked at him, gave him one overt once-over in a last ditch effort to shame into confessing. It didn’t work, of course. But it was nice to look at.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”

Neal walked closer, unselfconscious of his nudity. “You ruined my suit,” he said, bending over to retrieve his clothes from the floor."

Peter wasn’t looking at Neal’s ass as he bent, wasn’t appreciating the curve of his flesh where it met with the soft dangle of his testicles. He was just looking down at the floor when he saw something shiny on Neal’s calf, glittering against the anklet.

“Neal,” Peter said, grabbing him by the bare shoulder. “Don’t move.”

“Whoa,” Neal began, because Peter knelt down without letting go of his shoulder, forcing Neal to sprawl sideways on to the hard floor, half landing on Peter’s thighs. “Ow! Hey!”

Peter removed he hand from his shoulder, replaced it on Neal’s warm flank and pinned him on his belly to the floor. “Stay.”

The microchip was tucked securely into the band encircling Neal’s anklet. Peter wouldn’t have felt it when he ran his hands over it, just the curves of the tracker.

Carefully, his fingers almost too big to fit between Neal’s skin and the plastic, Peter fished the microchip out.

“You little…” he began, tucking the microchip into his breast pocket before the tiny thing could get dropped.

On the floor, Neal was completely still. “I have no idea how that got there,” he said, voice sunny. Peter couldn’t see Neal’s face, but the tone was fake.

Not thinking – very deliberately not thinking – Peter dug the fingers of the hand on Neal’s ass in, watching with fascination the way the skin went pink and white from the force. He brought his other hand in to, pressed it hard into Neal’s asscrack.

Neal jerked in place and made a strangled noise when Peter touched his hole. It wasn’t gentle or even well aimed, Peter following the heat more than looking. He pressed harder, not even sure what he was doing, feeling Neal’s body yield to him until suddenly the very tips of his middle and index finger were pressing into a tight, dry heat.

And that was when Peter realized the firm pressure against his thigh was Neal’s dick, abruptly hard. And his own erection, confined by his pants, was painful and awkward against Neal’s bare side.  
Peter jerked his hand back, his fingers losing the warmth. He looked down, saw Neal’s reddened hole. His hands wanted to grab some more – Neal’s asscrack, Neal’s balls flushed with heat against Peter’s leg, Neal’s dick, even Neal’s face.

Instead, he forced himself to let go, to swiftly remove himself from contact with Neal’s body. He stood up, the parts of him that had had Neal touching them suddenly perceptibly cold.

Neal stayed on the floor, silent but breathing heavily.

“I’m going to tell the NSA the microchip never left FBI hands,” Peter said, finding his voice. “I’m going to stop Jones from making that call and you’re going to get dressed and think about if you want to end up like this again.”

Before he left the room, Peter draped his jacket over his arm, made sure it blocked his straining, unhappy dick.


End file.
